There was a fulness of the heart,

A glistening of the eye, -
A sudden flushing of the cheek, -

I cannot tell you why.
I probed not then the mighty throb

That shook my trembling frame,
I only knew-I only felt

It was my Father's Name.

And cloudless will I keep that name, While God

my

life will spare ; It never yet confessed a blot,

Nor stain shall enter there. In woe or weal, unsullied still

By shadow or by shame, Proudly my heart shall beat to tell,

It is my Father's Name.

And when at length they lay me down

Within the peaceful grave, And He, the mighty Lord of all

Shall claim the breath he gave; Let but one line above my tomb,

One sculptured line proclaim, “He found it spotless, and unstained

Is still his Father's Name !"

THE LOSS OF FRIENDS.

FRIEND after friend departs :

Who hath not lost a friend ? There is no union here of hearts

That finds not here an end ! Were this frail world our final rest, Living or dying, none were blest.

Beyond the flight of time

Beyond the reign of death-
There surely is some blessed clime,

Where life is not a breath ;
Nor life's affection's transient fire,
Whose sparks fly upwards and expire.

There is a world above,

Where parting is unknown,
A long eternity of love,

Form'd for the good alone ;
And Faith beholds the dying here,
Translated to that glorious sphere.

Thus star by star declines,

Till all are past away ;
As morning high, and higher shines

To pure and perfect day :
Nor sink those stars in empty night,
But hide themselves in heaven's own light.

MONTGOMERY. THE CHRISTIAN PAUPER'S DEATH-BED.

TREAD softly—bow the head,

In reverent silence bow,
No passing bell doth toll,
Yet an immortal soul

Is passing now.

Stranger ! however great,

With lowly reverence bow;
There's one in that poor shed,
One by that poor bed,

Greater than thou.

Beneath that beggar's roof,

Lo! Death doth keep his state :
Enter—no crowds attend ;
Enter-no guards defend

This palace gate.

That pavement damp and cold,

No smiling courtiers tread;
One silent woman stands
Lifting, with meagre hands,

A dying head.

No mingling voices sound,

An infant wail alone,
A sob suppressed again
That short, deep gasp, and then

The parting groan.

Oh! change-oh! wondrous change!

Burst are the prison bars, –
This moment there so low,
So agonized, -and now

Beyond the stars.

Oh! change-stupendous thange!

There lies the soulless clod ;
The sun eternal breaks-
The new immortal wakes,
Wakes with his God.

MRS. SOUTHEY.

POETICAL PORTRAITS.

SHAKSPERE.

His was the wizard spell,

The spirit to enchain : His grasp

o'er Nature fell, Creation owned his reign.

MILTON.

His spirit was the home

Of aspiration high!
A temple, whose huge dome

Was hidden in the sky.

THOMSON.

The Seasons, as they roll,

Shall bear thy name along ; And graven on the soul

Of Nature, live thy song.

BURNS.

He seized his country's lyre,
With ardent grasp

and strong;
And made his soul of fire

Dissolve itself in song.

CAMPBELL.

With all that Nature's fire

Can lend to polish'd art,
He strikes his graceful lyre

To thrill or warm the heart.

HEMANS.

To bid the big tear start

Unchallenged from its shrine,
And thrill the quivering heart

With pity's voice, are thine.

BYRON.

Black clouds his forehead bound,

And at his feet were flowers :
Mirth, madness, magic, found

In him their keenest powers.

MACNISH.

WHO LOVES ME BEST?

Who loves me best ?—my mother sweet,
Whose
every

look is with love replete, Who held me an infant on her kuee, And hath ever been a friend to me;